[Open] Crimes of Sedition

[Paragon]

8 Glade 121 Steel

Corporal Timothy R. Carrigan glanced uncomfortably at the woman who stood resolutely between a cadre of armed guards. A black collar attached to heavy iron chains was around her neck. Her hands were bound and her long black hair hung down to her waist, disheveled. Her form was waiflike, the skin was pale and her eyes were sunken. The appearance of bruises and evidence of malnutrition were plain to see. She looked as though a stiff wind might send her careening into the nearest wall. In spite of that, she stood defiantly. She did not shake. She did not flinch or shy away from the soldiers that remained beside her, each one grasping one of the chains extending from the collar. The sound of heavy armored footsteps reached the corporal’s ears. He turned to the chamber door as it swung open and in walked a robed older man bearing the symbol of the Order of Reconciliators. The corporal rendered a clean salute which was returned sharply. The man stepped up to the young woman who stared at him blandly.

“Venetia Childs, you have been found guilty of the practice of enchantments against the State of Zaichaer. By the authority of the Grand Marshal, you have been sentenced to death by public burning at the stake. However, in an act of mercy, the Grand Marshal is prepared to spare you if you give us the names of your co-conspirators. Who are they? Where are they?” The old man spoke sternly, his gaze never faltering as he stared at the young woman. Her face was impassive, as it had been since the corporal had first met her. She regarded the Reconciliator with as much emotion as one might stare at an insect about to be crushed. The silence stretched on for several beats, the only sound being that of a cough from one of the other soldiers. After what felt like an eternity of silence, the old man nodded.

“So be it. Do you have any final requests before the sentence is carried out?” Again the young woman stared at the Reconciliator in silence. He nodded after another full minute of waiting. He turned to the corporal who came to attention as he faced the old man’s scrutiny.

“We shall go prepare the pyre. When the bell tolls, escort her to the platform.” He raised a hand and the soldiers each removed a single chain from her before extending the remaining chain to him. He grasped it. He felt a tingling in his fingers as they wrapped around the chain. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. There was magic in the chain and collar around her neck. He resisted the urge to shiver as one by one the other soldiers filed out of the room. That left only him, the old man and the prisoner. The old man looked at her. There was a hard stare in his eyes as he regarded her. After another beat of silence, he turned and left the room, closing the door behind him leaving Corporal Carrigan alone with her.

She lowered her gaze to the floor. Her bound hands were folded together neatly before her as though in prayer. Her eyes closed. There was a resigned look upon her face. He resisted the urge to shift uncomfortably. He was alone in a room with a witch. A sorceress that was about to be burned at the stake for betraying Zaichaer.

“You are new.” Her voice startled him out of his thoughts. It was hoarse and dry, with a slight wheeze to it as though speaking exhausted her. Her eyes did not open but he could feel her studying him somehow.

“What?” The slightest smile touched her lips.

“You are new.” He narrowed his gaze at her. The traitors were told nothing of those who watched them. Before he could rebuke her, she spoke. “You don’t have the apathy that the others do.”

“Does it matter?” He narrowed his eyes at her. She opened hers and for the first time since being around her, she looked at him. Only it wasn’t the dead, bland stare of a woman resigned to her fate. There was a sharp and biting intelligence behind those eyes. Corporal Carrigan stood taller. He instinctively lifted his chin. The corners of her lips twitched.

“Timothy, isn’t it?” He blinked at her. Prisoners weren’t told the names of their watchmen. Something in his expression must have shown his surprise as she regarded him. She nodded as though confirming something. “I hope Nathaniel made it.”

Timothy went cold. His stomach dropped to his feet. A cold sweat broke out over his upper lip. She pinned him with her gaze.

“What do you know about Nathaniel?” He expected a sneer. He expected contempt. He expected a threat or an attempt at a bribe. What he did not expect was the genuine smile of sadness that passed over her face.

“The truth.” Timothy went cold. How could she have known? They had been so careful. They had done everything right. They had taken every precaution. He firmed his features but she looked unphased.

“You’re lying.” She smiled at him in that sad way again.

“No. I am not.” Timothy’s nostrils flared as he regarded her. “They will come for him after today.”

The bell tolled. Corporal Carrigan flinched. The young woman closed her eyes. The bell tolled again. He stared at her.

“He’s all I have.” He whispered, pleading with her for some unknown reason. She opened her eyes. There was neither anger nor resentment. Only pity and most of all, empathy.

“I know.” The bell tolled a third time. Timothy hesitated then he opened the door and led her down the corridor. Each step felt heavier but he worked to school his features as he brought her to her death. As they passed into the courtyard, the flags of Zaichaer flew high atop the minarets of the Presidium. The platform assembled was one that was made entirely of a black stone that shone with pinpoints of blue light. It was the stone that cancelled out magic. Any brought to the pillar at the center of the platform would be without whatever magic they commanded. Atop the platform stood the old man, the Reconciliator. In the courtyard across from them, a crowd had gathered to bear witness to the death of a mage.

Mages were supposed to be unclean. They were unnatural. They were the antithesis of everything that Zaichaer stood for. The reality was that Zaichaer relied on magic to control those who practiced magic. It was a necessity and Timothy knew this well. He knew it better than most. He had to. Without any falter in his step or hesitation, Corporal Carrigan brought the witch to the pillar. He affixed the chain to the stake and then stepped back. He turned to face the Reconciliator. The old man had a scroll in his hand, her charges no doubt. He looked at her one last time before turning to face the crowd.

Murmurings slowed until silence settled.

“Hail Zaichaer!” A chorus of replies echoed out over the crowd. The old man unfurled the scroll and began reading.

“Venetia Childs. You stand before the Presidium in judgement. You have been tried and convicted for the practice of sorcery against the State of Zaichaer. On the 30th of Frost, 120th Year of our Age of Steel, you broke into the Hall of Reconciliation, injured seven members of the Order and killed three others. You stole tools built and designed to ensure the safety of Zaichaer and its citizens. You are found guilty of conspiracy to overthrow the State of Zaichaer, of murder in the first degree, of conspiracy to assassinate our Grand Marshal and for violating the precepts of Law as set forth by the State’s doctrine. For these crimes, you are sentenced to death. To be carried out through immolation.” The Reconciliator rolled up the scroll. He turned to look at her with a solemnity that seemed rehearsed.

“Given this 8th day of Glade, 121st year of our Age of Steel. Do you have any final words?”

The crowd seemed to hold its breath. Timothy looked on, stone faced. But in the pit of his stomach, he felt anything but calm.

Somehow...this felt wrong. And he felt wrong for feeling that.

[Brenner Dornkirk]

"I've never been blessed with such a sterling vantage at one of these." Brenner noted with a chuckle, as he gazed down from a balcony overlooking the courtyard. His sky blue eyes didn't waver from the platform as he drew a flute of sparkling dry Riesling to his smirking lips. The Air Commander was, of course, accustomed to a birds-eye-view, but this setting was far more intimate than the environs of a Dornkirk-designed dreadnought hanging between distant clouds.

"Well, we're happy to have you." An older officer replied, cordially. "We always hold a sorcerer scorching soiree when the opportunity presents itself. The view is lovely, but be aware- The smell can be ghastly, if the winds send smoke our way..."

"Oh, they won't." The young commander replied confidently. "It's a Westerly wind today."

"Ah. It seems I forgot I was speaking with a soldier of the skies." The colonel chuckled, and glanced back into the chamber behind them. "Ah. That will be Air Admiral Angevin. Please excuse me..." He offered a friendly pat to the small of Brenner's back, before quitting the balcony to head inside.



As a potent breeze whipped his hair about his face, Brenner took in a deep, savouring breath and shut his eyes as the strains of a jaunty melody floated out to the balcony from his rear. Therein a fair-skinned vamp with platinum hair, scarlet lips and a sleek black dress stood before a chamber ensemble descanting in sprechstimme with a rich, deep voice that seemed to vie against her waifish physique. The strange song's playful buoyancy seemed to intentionally counter the darkness of the lyric. With nothing to observe below but an eager, chattering crowd, Brenner glanced over the epaulette that decorated his left shoulder to regard the chanteuse. She was a strikingly beautiful woman who, from this distance, had an ageless quality about her. If she hadn't walked by him earlier, he might have taken her for an ingenue, but on close inspection she was undoubtedly his senior.

"May I freshen your drink, sir?" The voice startled him slightly, but he regarded the servant with a canted brow and extended the hand holding the crystal flute. His eyes trailed from the servant back to the siren as his drink was replenished, but his attention was promptly drawn down to the courtyard as the chittering below grew louder. A crooked grin tugged at his lips and he called over his shoulder,

"They're bringing her out!"

The modest crowd of elites who'd been milling within, quickly made for the balcony to join Brenner in observing the grim procession.

"Hail Zaichaer!" Brenner led their group in the response and accompanying salute, for which he swapped his wine glass to the other hand. As the Reconciliator began to speak, Brenner took a sip of the crisp vintage and shifted his weight to one foot as he took in the cast of characters on the stage below who were poised to give them a show. The ensemble of guards, the sagely elder... There was something odd in the expression of the corporal who'd guided the day's anti-heroine to her mark, but Brenner's attention didn't linger upon him. Like most present, he was looking at the woman... scanning her face for something warped and devilish to befit what she was. Nothing stuck out at him, but doubtless the flames would soon draw out aught demonic that dwelt within the witch.

"Lovely day for it." Brenner noted to those who'd gathered in his immediate vicinity. "Can you see, ma'am? Please," he gestured, "Stand in front of me." And he scooted aside, offering his hand to an elderly woman so she could claim a better view despite her diminutive height as, behind them, the chanteuse continued to croon pleasantly.

[Stefan Dornkirk]

The Heir of Dornkirk was late to the party. He'd only been informed of it last minute and hadn't wanted to leave his drafting table; luckily for him, he employed an assistant who knew his habits. Dienerin had prepared his suit ensemble; pressed, steamed, starched, and waiting for him at the office. Stefan had been able to change and step into the waiting steam carriage with enough time to arrive before the main event.

In some ways, or, for some attendees, he knew he might be considered the main event. Lady Sylana Dornkirk, wife of the marvel of upward social movement, Melchior Dornkirk, had made it known in all the right circles that her eldest son and heir to the family business was, at last, in search of a bride.
The added attention this had brought a mire of discomforts to Stefan's life. His social engagements had doubled; his obligation to serve as host, to open Dornkirk Manor to all manner or fêtes, dances, and dinners had left him with permanent dark smudges under his eyes and a stiffness to his demeanor. He was trying, he really was. Pleasing his parents had been the central goal of his life since he'd been pulled, screaming, into it.

Stepping from the carriage, he was recognized at the door without having to announce himself, he was able to stride through the elaborate doors without pausing. His coat was taken and then, he was alone. Alone in a sea of well-dressed bodies, buffeted by their conversation, their emotion and desires, their lies and intent, before any of it was even directed at him. Taking a slow breath through his nose he put on a stern, somewhat jaunty expression, as though he were happy to be there but had many important things on his mind.

Several people noticed him and made their greetings, but, thankfully, it was not the sort of gathering that would induce romantic endeavors. Taking a drink from a passing server without bothering to check what was inside, he moved to stand where he might observe the event, as was his duty, without being anywhere near the front.

After a few moments of letting the constant chatter wash over him, he heard his name. It hadn't been spoken near him, nor in the tone of voice he was usually spoken to in. Glancing around he caught sight of a head of full dark-blonde hair, much like his own, and the shoulders of the uniform of an Air Defence Officer. Stefan's expression didn't change but his posture relaxed minutely. It wasn't as though his brother would be able to spare him a moment of the party, but having him in the same room always helped Stefan. Even not knowing Stefan was also present, somehow, Brenner helped.

The drumbeat that accompanied the condemned to the pyre began, even as the music accompany the party continued. At least the wind was out of the west today, no chance or char blowing in toward the open balcony. The criminal appeared to be a young woman, small and mistreated, but what could one expect of that sort? She didn't look to be much past the age of her majority. The same age the women being offered Stefan in marriage were. Glancing around he saw a few of them in attendance, peering excitedly past whichever family member was escorting them. Not too many pre-marriage women attended execution parties; it being generally thought that such things should be left to women of greater maturity, or, at least, who had already been claimed. Some parents thought it was important for all their children to be exposed to the dangers of magic, and their remedies, thus, there were a few.

The prisoner seemed to be taking it well, no screaming, begging, attempted escapes. Perhaps she was merely exhausted or had given up. Stefan knew the ways of Reconciliators, knew that time spent in their care did not leave much room for hope.

He suppressed a wince as the charges were read aloud. This was no child caught dallying with that which they did not understand. His frown firmed, if even some of the charges were true the sentence was just. When the Reconciliator finished speaking he repeated the cheer he'd heard on his brother's lips moments before,

"Hail Zaichaer." Raising his glass and sipping from it for the first time. The wine was a deep red, dark, like blood. It suited his mood.

[Paragon]

8 Glade 121

“Brenner Dornkirk, yes?” The elder woman whom he stepped aside to make room for was dressed handsomely. Her hair was pulled back into a bun. The grey dress she wore bore neither the elegant lace of younger women nor the frippery of young ladies seeking attention. Her eyes held the weight of many years of hard won wisdom. No makeup adorned her face. Her voice held a steadiness to it. As she stepped up to the railing of the balcony, she cast him a glance, sharp green eyes taking in the whole of him within moments. She accepted his hand allowing him to assist her into a better spot to see the event.

“Good it is that the line of Melchior has manners.” A servant passing through the gathering extended a tray of flutes to the woman. She waved him off dismissively.

“When I was a girl, I remember seeing my first burning. A terrible day it was. The skies were grey. Fog clung to the stones of every building. There were three of them, mages that had acted to kill and hurt Zaichaer. Have you ever fought one before, boy? A mage?” Her eyes never left the waifish form of the young woman who was being prepared for her death. She seemed lost in her thoughts as she spoke without truly waiting for an answer.

“Unnatural things.” The way she stared down at the woman about to face the pyre was not that of someone looking at a person. Her gaze held the detached contempt of one who was staring at an insect or a disease that needed to be cured. The elder woman held her head imperiously as she stared down from the balcony. The Reconciliator on the platform turned then to look directly at her. The two of them exchanged a nod of acknowledgement before the proceedings continued. She glanced over to see the arrival of Stefan, a quirk of her eyebrow following her brief attention.

---

Venetia Childs had known her death was coming. She had prepared for it the day she had taken up her task, the day she had decided that the only cure for the disease that infected the festering pustule of a city that was Zaichaer, was complete annihilation of everything it stood for. Now that she faced it, her head was held evenly. There was a small smile of amusement on her face as the elder Reconciliator read off her crimes. Then came the question. Her final words. She looked out over the crowd before letting her eyes settle upon the old man.

“Light the Fire. Lead the way.” The elder Reconciliator frowned. Her voice was steady. There was no fear or regret in her eyes. Something tugged at the elder man in the back of his mind, a feeling that did not sit well but he motioned for the pyre to be set alight. Timothy was the first to grab a torch and step forward. He met her gaze stoically. Venetia looked at peace. Leaning down the soldier touched the torch to the pyre. The wood caught fire as the oils and kindling interspersed over the wood was ignited with ease. It was as he was pulling back that he caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. The shine of metal, a cold feeling running up his spine. He whipped around to the side, hand reaching for his sword. He was half-way to grasping the hilt when he was hit full force in the chest with a blast that knocked the wind out of his lungs. Timothy was sent tumbling off the platform and careening into the ground.

Immediately the other soldiers began drawing their weapons only for another of them to get hit by something that sent them tumbling from the platform. The elder Reconciliator spun to face the witch even as the fires began burning brighter around her.

“Impossible! TO ARM--” The words caught in his throat. The old man could not move. His whole body felt as though it were in a vice-like grip. His eyes went wide as the collar around her neck cracked and fell to pieces. The chains wrapped around the burning stake began to shatter one by one. It was for this reason that mages of the Order presided over burnings. It was for this reason that they were trained heavily in the arts of Negation. But nothing could have prepared him for what came next. The young woman stepped into the flames, her ragged clothes were unharmed by the fire. They almost seemed to glow brightly in her eyes. The old man pooled his aether, working to build up a negation ward to throw off the power that bound him.

She stepped up to him, a hand reaching out to touch fingers to his chest. The Reconciliator felt pain unlike anything he’d experienced in his life. His mouth fell open in a visceral scream. As Venetia removed her hand, the sickening snap of bone followed by the gurgling of a man choking on blood sounded in the courtyard. Streams of blood flowed out of the Reconciliator and into the woman. The man’s chest cavity burst open as his heart was pulled from his chest. She grasped it as the last drop of blood flowed out of the Reconciliator leaving him a desiccated husk that fell to the ground, lifeless. The heart beat once, beat twice, then began glowing as though with the light of a fire. In the crowd, other figures revealed themselves, each of them carrying a staff of black iron. The last of the chains atop the platform cracked and fell to pieces. The iron staves that each of the figures carried cracked and fell to bits in their grasp, their purpose seemingly served. Venetia looked down upon the crowd as panic and screams broke out, the people scrambling to escape. She looked at the glowing heart with an air of apathy.

“Light the Fire. Lead the way.” She tossed the heart into the crowd. As soon as it touched one of the hapless citizens, they screamed, their veins all beginning to glow brightly before they exploded in a shower of blood and fire. A display that began to spread as those closest to that soul began glowing as though with inner fire only to explode in a grizzly display.

Venetia looked upon the now burning crowd, her face blank of any expression. Then she turned to leave the stage.

[Brenner Dornkirk]

Brenner offered a cordial smile and a nod to the dowager, pleasantly surprised that she recognised him and addressed him by name. He always found it gratifying when his reputation preceded him in this fashion, even if he was at rather a loss, having no inkling who this woman might be. He chortled at the veiled dig to his father, comprehending.

"Well, the line of Melchior is appended by the blood of Lady Sylana. And fortunately she took more of a hand in our society education, with all the knowledge she brought from her rearing amongst the Gelerian gentry." He returned his gaze to the activity below, as the woman described an earlier execution.

"I have..." He replied to her direct question and thought to elaborate, but a sidelong glance to the woman's expression made him think better of it. It wasn't the most gallant of tales, so he was just as happy to let the matron wax nostalgic whilst the show below got underway.

He took a sip of his drink, and knitted his brow slightly as the Reconciliator, who served as their de facto Master of Ceremonies, seemed to look directly at him. With uncertainty, he raised his hand in a sheepish wave. Half a second later, the dowager's resultant nod made him realise, blushing, that the look had been directed at her not at him. He quickly tried to make it look as though his hand had been lifted to smooth out the front of his formal dress jacket. Fortunately, all attention was now on the main event.

"Bloody smug." He muttered to himself, as he regarded the blithe expression of the condemned. Perhaps it was better that she had no remorse. It would make her demise feel that more just- a preventative measure to future evils. Little did Brenner know, such evils were moments away.

An audible gasp pervaded the crowd that had assembled on the terrace as the young corporal Brenner had noticed earlier, was flung backwards by a force that was either obscured from his view or altogether invisible. His body tensed and his hand reached for the spot where his holster typically hung, but not today... not in these festive environs.

His mind caught up with the moment, and he realised that those actually tasked with carrying out this execution were experts and armed with the tools to contain witches. There was no need for him to be a hero, when-... He didn't have time to finish that thought, before he found it contradicted by a rapid series of blood-curdling events.

"...by the empty throne..." He whispered, almost breathlessly. He took in a sudden inspiration, and turned back toward the interior. "We need firearms! We need negation!" His eyes found his brother, and for a split second he allowed his abject fear to reveal itself in his wavering gaze- it was pleading for help.

"Civilians, off the balcony at once!" He ordered, offering to help the old woman inside, as the band halted their jaunty tune and made for the door. He kept his head low as he ushered people off the balcony, all the while searching for those who might be complying with his earlier plea.

"Able bodies with ranged weapons to the balcony! Double quick!" This was a Zaichaeri military party. There was no way there weren't firearms within a few doors of them, and this was exactly why. Sometimes all it took to stop a ravening mass-murdering mage was a good guy with a gun, and Brenner had every intention of being that guy.

[Dreyfus]

♅ Crimes of Sedition ♅
♅ 8th of Glade, Year 121, A.o.S ♅

---

♅ He was never one for large gatherings, let alone parties. His father and his military contacts were having some sort of party as they watched the witch burning, something Dreyfus was rather familiar with due to his line of work.

Leaning against the edge of the balcony, he had the perfect view, able to see the comings and goings of the reconciliators and spectators from all over the city. A calm yet intrigued smirk played on his face, his crystal amber eyes darting from person to person, drinking in any and every hand gesture to body language, to the facial expressions of those he managed to see. It was fun watching the interactions of such well-established citizens, a nice change of pace he could say at least.

Dreyfus had kept a wide birth from the other guest at the soiree simply because none of them interested him at the moment. He knew enough about those within the room that he need not bother with mingling amongst them. His attention, his focus was on the woman below. She was far too calm for his liking, a calm before a great storm he equated. Clutching his mother's necklace, his eyes remained trained on her as he watched a reconciliator engage with the woman.

She never swayed in her lack of remorse for whatever crime she was being sentenced for, the look on her face that of someone not afraid of the consequences of their actions. There was an air of confidence on her face and Dreyfus found that alarming. For someone about to be burned alive, she was far too at ease for his liking.

Part of him wished to be down there with the rest of the members of the order, but at his father's request, he had no choice but to be up here with the aristocrats instead. Luckily for him, there were a few faces he knew. A member of the Air Defense Division, Donivan, was here. He knew Donivan as both of their fathers were old war buddies. Where Donivan's father remained to serve and command among the Air Defense force, Dreyfus' father went on to become one of Zaicher's premier information officers.

"Well well look what wolf dragged in, I didn't expect to see you here Dreyfus." he jested, the two embracing each other in a brotherly hug. "Come let me take a look at ya. You look like shit Drey." he chuckled as gave a soft punch to Dreyfus' shoulder. The wolf could only smile at his old friend as he held the shoulder. "If I look like shit, then what does that make you Doni?" he shot back, coming to lean back onto the balcony ledge.

Both men stood looking down at the stage below, Dreyfus taking a sip of the wine he had before locking his eyes back onto the prisoner. "What do you know about our pyre fuel Drey? Anything juicy you can tell me?" he asked, curious eyes looking at the wolf as he eased into the ledge as well. "Murder, use of magic against the state, theft of government property with malicious intent." he repeated, as he remembered that well. He lost some good people in her attack.

"She was bold in her assault but ultimately it was a futile attempt. She was up against an army trained to stop uncontrolled magic. And yet despite my hatred for her, something about this feels off." He wasn't sure what this feeling was, but the more he looked to Venetia the more he felt that unsettling feeling crawl up his spine like a centipede.

Soon the execution was underway. Both Donivan and Dreyfus watched as things seemed to be under control. The soldier lighting the pyre was familiar to him, and Dreyfus knew the old man well, seeing him around the order often. Yet when Timothy set flame to the pyre something in Dreyfus stirred. Something wasn't right about any of this. There were no screams of pain like one would expect from being burned alive.

"Dreyfus, your eyes, they're bleeding?!" Donivan exclaimed, a look of disbelief on his face. Dreyfus wiped the blood from his eyes, only to be wracked with pain in his chest, the scar over his heart glowing through his suit. That's when everything went to shit, as the woman unleashed hell upon the stage, an action that spurred those within the party to react. Clutching his chest, Dreyfus watched as the old man was killed before his very eyes, his own heart pulled from his chest. If Dreyfus didn't know any better, he would say she was using Kinetics.

Adding to the fact that she was walking within the flames and was unharmed meant she was also an Elementalist. One of the officers, a Dornkirk if he was correct, rallied everyone into action, calling for ranged fighters, but Dreyfus refused to wait for any reinforcements to arrive, believing Venetia would escape before they arrived. Backing away from the balcony, Dreyfus got a running start as he jumped from the balcony, plummeting towards the crowd of blood and flames.

Using his own Kinetics, he pooled enough of flux to push away from the ground in order to soften his descent, tumbling into several fleeing citizens. Helping them to their feet he ushered them away from the stage and ran to catch the woman. With his longsword drawn and pistol in hand, he climbed the stage determined to stop her or die trying. "Not a step further. I can't let you get away." he pressed, pooling more of the flux into his sword hand. ♅

---

Company: Military personel, Party Guests| Theme: Kakusei| Thoughts: Bloody Hell| Mood: Cautious

"Common Speech"
"Silandris Speech"

[Evana]

She might have just imagined it, but Evana thought she could feel the heat of the flames even from where she sat on the roof of a building high above the stone stage. Her tail wrapped around her body as she hugged one knee to her chest, the other foot dangling over the lip of the ledge on which she sat. The smell of bodies burning made her nose twitch, and she grimaced.

Venetia Childs. There wasn't a witch alive in the Hidden Places that hadn't heard of her. Some of the Coven's supported her in word only, but most outright shunned her. That was what Evana thought at least. After all the black markets could never set up in areas she was active. Wherever that witch went she brought attention to herself, and attention was bad for business. Still though she was one of them, and the Coven's always attended a burning of their own. Even for their worst enemies. In this, at least, they were all in agreement. Glancing down Eva saw one of of the Coven Runners moving through the crowd. The Reconciliators would likely be shocked to realize just how many were always present at these events, hidden in plain sight, unseen and unremarkable. Unfortunately for them they didn't notice today, and apparently Venetia managed to convince a few allies to join in this latest display.

Standing, Evana balanced herself on the ledge before walking slowly to the corner of the building to get a better vantage point. Below her she saw a man jump from a balcony, and she watched him with some amusement before turning her eyes upward. Using her claws she climbed the short distance to the crest of the building's roof and up to its chimney stack, where she crouched, not minding the small trickle of smoke that was bleeding from its maw. Curiously she watched the man jump onto the stage and draw his sword.

"Well that was stupid." She said aloud. Through her eyes she could see the lines of probability, faint, slightly translucent strings that swirled and curled around everything. When she focused some of the lines disappeared and others made themselves known. The line that connected the man with Venetia was thin, nearly non existent. Whatever he had planned had a near 0% chance of success.

"Stupid." Eva repeated with a shake of her head. A noise to her left announced more people rallying, weapons drawn. Scratching her neck Eva considered what to do.

[Paragon]

The elder woman went wide eyed at the grotesque display of burning horror unfolding in the plaza below. Her horror quickly turned to a sneer of anger as she watched it. When Brenner offered his assistance, she waved him off.

“See to the witch, Commander. Put her in her grave, burn her, blow her to pieces.” The woman narrowed her eyes in clear disgust and fury at the witch releasing chaos down below. She then turned her gaze to the young officer. There was no sign of a meek or terrified woman, but that of a sharp minded individual who was equipped to function in the current circumstances. With a nod she turned to step into the room so as to get out of the way of the soldiers rushing to follow the orders of the young officer.

“Sir!” Another of the soldiers at the party quickly tossed a rifle to Brenner as others stepped up to join him at the balcony. Each of them took up a position, aiming down at the figures in the plaza who were beginning to unleash all manner of dark sorceries upon the unsuspecting civilians. Not far away the sounds of alarms were ringing and distantly the rush and commands of more soldiers making their way toward the plaza could be heard. Reinforcements were not far away. Two of the aberrant magic users were immediately within Brenner’s sights, one of whom was unleashing a wall of fire onto people attempting to run for their lives. The other was sending spikes of ice as sharp as swords hurling into anyone and everyone nearby. Meanwhile, Venetia Childs, the witch responsible for starting all of this chaos was calmly standing on the far end of the platform, unconcerned with the terror she had unleashed.

Brenner could take a shot at her but the distance made it easier to miss.

---

Venetia made her way to the edge of the platform. Her eyes came to rest upon the form of Timothy as he was regaining consciousness from being knocked cleanly to the ground. She studied him quietly before turning her head slightly at being approached by Dreyfus. She arched an eyebrow as the man extended his sword and aimed his gun at her.

“Put the gun down, Dreyfus.” Venetia tilted her head, regarding the man with eyes that stared at him with a heavy sadness. “I would hate to kill Maria’s only child.”

She raised a hand, passing it over Timothy with the palm facing down. The young solider gasped as his body spasmed. He grit his teeth as it looked as though he fought against some unseen force before falling unconscious once more, going limp. Two cloaked figured rushed forward, kneeling down to collect the unconscious form in their grasp. Venetia then turned to regard Dreyfus more fully. More screams echoed from within the plaza as whatever spell the woman had unleashed bounced from person to person. Their veins illuminating brightly before they exploded in a shower of blood and gore and flames. Curiously, whatever she had unleashed was not affecting everyone it neared.

The sounds of armored boots and the shouts of soldiers drew nearer over the chaos. A full detachment of Zaichaeri soldiers was rushing into the plaza. Among them, the forms of several Reconciliators could be seen. Venetia stared at them with a detached air.

“You will have a choice to make soon, Dreyfus.” She gestured to the flames and death around them. “I hope you make the right one.”

A gunshot sounded as a caster shell pierced Venetia’s shoulder. Blood sprayed and bone splintered as her arm was blown apart by the force of the shell’s impact. Flames from the caster shell released by whatever gun it was fired from licked over her body, charring some of her skin. The woman did not even scream. The blood and bone froze in mid-air, pulling back to her body as the arm drifted upwards and back into place. The flames on her body died down. Her skin righted itself. She did not even take her eyes off of Dreyfus.

“Until we meet again, nephew.”

Venetia walked down the stairs of the platform. She took the hands of the cloaked individuals who carried the young soldier’s body. In one blink to the next...they were gone. Leaving only the remaining mages to be dealt with.

[Brenner Dornkirk]

"Count on it." Brenner replied to the dowager with a firm nod, as she stepped indoors. He shepherded a few more of the civilians clear of the balcony into the comparative safety of the parlour within. In truth there was no telling what breadth of power these renegades wielded, but apart being concerned for civilian safety, Brenner and the other soldiers would need space. He glanced sidelong as a man with bleeding eyes leapt over the railing and softened his fall with sorcery. Brenner's eyes narrowed. He was unsure whether the mage was friend or foe, but if he was a foe he'd just quit a roomful of sitting ducks in favour of the chaotic storm of violence taking place in the courtyard. His musings on the man were interrupted by a call from behind. He whipped around and caught the rifle with both hands. He cocked it and called over his epaulet,

"This is a hunt, folks! I need people keeping guns loaded and handing them off to shooters!" He called as he crouched to line the barrel up between two balusters. He got the witch in his sights. There were easier shots to be taken at two mages closer by, but there were lesser shooters who could focus their energies on disrupting their onslaught. Brenner had told the old dowager that he would see to the witch, and he had every intention of following through on that.

To Brenner's good fortune, the woman moved slowly and deliberately, seeming unconcerned with any would-be threads like sharpshooters above. He lined up a headshot and tensed his trigger finger almost to the point of firing, when suddenly another figure was in his path.

"Fucking seriously?" It was that mage with the bloody eyes who'd jumped off the balcony. He snarled and considered the fallout, if he took the shot anyway and it ended up being one of their own Reconciliators. It'd still be two birds, one bullet as far as Brenner reckoned, but...

"Shit." It looked like the male mage was drawing weapons on the convicted witch. So much for plausible deniability. When she moved into his line of sight once more, he knew this might be his only shot. He didn't have time to line up a perfect headshot. At this range it would take luck as well as skill, but he aimed for her chest and pulled the trigger. A few shots were fired right around the same time, but something caused the woman to jerk to one side, so maybe one of them had been successful. He looked over his shoulder and handed the smoking rifle off to be replaced with a loaded one, which he promptly cocked.

When he turned back around to take aim for another shot at the witch, he found that she was gone. He muttered a curse in Kathalan and lined up a shot at the mage shredding fleeing onlookers with ice shrapnel.

"Hail..." The boom of Brenner's rifle shot thundered through the courtyard, "...Zaichaer." He handed the rifle back without looking this time and waited for another barrel to be pressed against his waiting palm.

[Stefan Dornkirk]

Everything changed fast. Stefan wasn't really watching the goings-on in the courtyard below, sipping his drink on the outskirts of the eager crowd pressing into the balcony, he was only peripherally aware of what was happening

There were a few sudden gasps, but it was, after all, a witch burning, some people were always going to have reactions to it. Then he heard his brother's voice, loud, snapping off commands with the lungs of an airship XO. Something had gone wrong. His eyes snapped to Brenner's face and for a moment the two connected. Stefan steeled, wrapping himself in the full height and command of all the years they'd spent having the knowledge of their right to rule drilled into them. He gave the slightest nod as Brenner's fear vanished and he was instantly in charge again.

The crowd had stood for that moment also, shocked, confused. The high, shrill scream of a young woman who had decided that, yes, now was an appropriate moment to go into hysterics, broke the spell and, en masse, the civilians began a panicked thrash toward the doors. The problem was that most of the doors only led deeper into the building.

A man, who appeared to be bleeding from the eyes, pushed through the milling herd and simply lept from the balcony. The act did nothing to calm the civilians, quite the opposite. Stefan realized that, in a moment, people would begin to injure each other. Snapping on his own military commander's voice he cut through the noise of terror and the first resounding firearm blast to address the crowd.

"We are citizens of Zaichaer, not frightened animals! We have faced this threat and overcome it through order and discipline for centuries! We will aid our brave soldiers by making our way out with the dignity of our race, while they safeguard our exit. For what can harm us while they stand?"

The stamped stopped in a series of confused stutters, quieting, all except the original hysterical girl. An elderly woman dressed in stuff, formal attire stepped forward with a frown and slapped the girl across the face hard enough that Stefan winced inwardly. The sob-screaming cut off immediately, leaving the girl with a look of such utter surprise on her face that Stefan had to stifle a laugh.

Everyone not rushing toward the balcony with rifles in hand was now staring at him. A hundred sets of eyes, wide and frantic, expecting him to lead them. Taking a sharp breath through his nose until he was Lord Dornkirk to his bones he began directing the gentleman to escort the ladies out in an orderly fashion. Surprisingly, or perhaps not so much so, the people obeyed him without hesitation, with some stern encouragement from the elderly dame.

In minutes the civilians had been led out of the building, even those who had fainted were now being revived out on the sidewalk. The dame seemed more than willing to accept the baton of command and was beginning to direct the people away by routes that would not lead them into the execution square. Stefan made a pass through all the rooms that were open to the public, ensuring no one had been left behind before returning to the balcony. He took in the scene quickly, from the growing stock of loaded guns to the men lined up taking shots down into the courtyard. His mind glanced off the spray of red coming from the crowd, there would be time to worry over the casualties later.

Taking up a loaded rifle in each hand he stepped forward, not flinching at the rapid retort of several shots going off at once. He slapped the gun in his offhand into Brenner's waiting one and took to one knee, pressing the familiar feel of the butt of the remaining weapon into his shoulder and closing one eye as he sighted down the barrel looking for a target. It was strange, he reflected, as he snapped off his first shot, that of all the ways the party could have gone, he thought he preferred this one.